Reaching for the Truth

3rd January, 2012 - Posted by Arita Trahan - Post a Comment

I haven’t been able to find my glasses of late. Looked everywhere, reaching under car seats and revisiting places I have been in my mind. Glad my vision is as good as it is, and relying on Mark to drive after dark. Wondering where they are.

This morning as I was getting up I remembered dreaming that I had found them. Not a dream of where they were – just remembering touching them with my fingers. Then I put my hand in my robe pocket and touched them with my fingers. Contact – ahhhh.

I haven’t been able to find my dad of late. Looked everywhere, reaching under crazy things he says and revisiting places we were together in my mind. Glad I have it as good as I do, and relying on my brother to care for him and me in this dark place. Wondering where my real dad is.

This morning I have felt so emotionally ragged. Like who he is and who I am (mom too) are really all mixed up together. I am only one little lean away from being all the crazy they seemed to me, right there next to the sanity I seek to claim. I realize that many of the comments and judgments that they made for many years were already on the track to the current dementia. So many of the odd moments that I found so off-putting were a result of this drifting of the mind into a different reality.

When my dad started visiting my second cousin a few years ago, I was jealous that he would choose to be with him over me and my brother. That he seemed to prefer him over us in so many ways. He even claimed to have “practically raised him” when it was his father he was actually remembering. But since Dad seemed sane in other ways, I was simply baffled and hurt.

Now I realize that the altering of history in his mind was going on for years. It explains so many cruelties. It also makes me aware that most of the horrible things he told me about my brother and his family were fabrications – true only to him. And here lies the rub. And the relief.

This morning Mark was recalling the smell of bacon being shared among the over-nighters at the Rose Bowl Parade yesterday. And I remembered the time in my childhood when Dad would take the four of us water skiing early in the morning on Lake Charles. The placid lake was such a serene treat to young skiers, almost like flying standing up. And the best part was Dad cooking eggs and bacon on the beach afterwards. Still early morning, the sun finding its slanty footing on the sand. And we were so hungry, and the smell of bacon traveled so far on the morning air. It wasn’t fair to anyone not invited to partake.

There he is. My dad. The play hard, work hard, make-work-your-play kinda guy. It was all so clear then. I can feel it with my fingertips.